nancymthurston

March 5, 2014

We Confess

I have ashes smeared on my forehead. They were placed there with the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

It is a good spiritual practice to live fully, whole-heartedly, remembering that we, along with everyone we love, will die.

But that is not the main reason Ash Wednesday is my favorite liturgy in the Episcopal Church. Since my first trip to Haiti, the service for this first day of Lent had a special place in my heart. It is the only time when the Episcopal community asks for forgiveness for our cultural sins.

This week, confession and asking for forgiveness as a nation feels particularly important.

Yesterday, I went to an Oregon Humanities Conversation Project talk on “Alternatives to Incarceration,” led by Walidah Imarisha. I learned disturbing statistics. Our prison population has increased 370% since 1970 (when I was in high school). If it hadn’t been for the “War on Drugs,” 70% of the people now in prison would NOT be there. We lock up more of our citizens than any other country in the world. Ironically, the amount of violent crime today is similar to what it was in 1950 (four years before I was born).

Incarceration is just one hot issue. If I started to list all of the cultural sins that are rampant in our world right now, I’d be writing for a very long time. With such a heavy heart, I headed to church on this Ash Wednesday to join my voice to others praying for forgiveness:

We confess to you, Lord …

Our self-indulgent appetites and ways, and our exploitation of other people …

Our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts. …

Accept our repentance, Lord, for the wrongs we have done:

For our blindness to human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty …

For our prejudice and contempt toward those who differ from us,

For our waste and pollution of your creation, and our lack of concern for those who come after us. … ¹

These words of confession spoke the things I so long to address in my life and in the world. Often Christians focus on personal sin but ignore institutional and organizational sin that we all participated in together.

Not me.

Not today.

I ask for forgiveness for myself and for my country. That is the first step toward transformation.

1 “Ash Wednesday Liturgy,” The Book of Common Prayer, (New York: Seabury Press, 1979), page 268

March 3, 2014

This Fragile Planet, our Island Home*

It is all we have. One planet. One island home in the midst of a vast universe. The poster on my wall shows a photograph of Earth from outer space and notes, “You are here.”

As a child in West Texas, I spent most of my time indoors. I enjoyed swimming at the community pool, sitting in my tree or bouncing on a neighbor’s pogo stick. But the rest of the time, I wanted to be inside. When my girlfriend’s mother forced us to go out into the summer heat, we’d spread a blanket on a patch of shaded grass and read our books.

As an adult, I still spend hours or days caught up in my head. Thoughts dancing around. Planning, keeping good order. Getting things checked off the lists.

In working with Big Topics at Midnight, I found my way back to my earthly home.

Indoors, I discovered, wasn’t enough. I needed to regularly stand on the earth. Watch the birds flit from tree to tree. Watch bare branches against the late winter sky. Savor camellia blooms peaking out through the leaves. Laugh at the flick of a squirrel tail.

In this You Tube, planted on my website’s “The Planet Earth” page (one of the “Big Topics”), I speak about my growing connections with “this fragile planet, our island home.” *

* Episcopal Church’s Book of Common Prayer, page 370

February 25, 2014

Reacting rather than Answering

Comedy is often based on quick jabs and rapid-fire remarks. Answering serious questions, however, takes a bit longer.

An interviewer asked Jerry Seinfeld a question: why most of the guests on his Web TV series Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee were white men.

Seinfeld got pissed off and rushed headlong into deflecting the question. “Who cares? People think [comedy] is the census or something, it’s gotta represent the actual pie chart of American.”

Many media reports followed suit.

“His job is to make people laugh, not fill quotas.”

He is “entitled to prioritize humor over diversity.”

Don’t forget that Seinfeld has lots of black comedian friends

Why don’t non-white men and women of all colors just create their own shows?

The usual reactive fare.

The conversation could have gone another direction. What would have happened if Seinfeld stopped to ask himself why he thought that 21 of the 25 guests chosen to be on his show had been white men?

The depth of my reaction to Seinfeld’s rant, however, wasn’t about him. It was about me.

I’ve spent far too many years reacting and getting offended when someone asks me a challenging question, especially one that I fear casts me in a light that is diametrically opposed to my stated values.

I may feel justified in my defensiveness, but my response doesn’t make any changes in me or in the world around me.

I am done with that. I am working like crazy to take responsibility for myself, to keep up my curiosity and to remember my commitment for a more just and joyful world.

I wanted Seinfeld to do what I didn’t do for so long.

Listen to the question.

Turn inward and try to stay open, without judgment or shame—both of which will stop us in our tracks. See what honest answer emerges.

Sometimes I hadn’t thought about it before. I was still asleep as to how race (or class or gender) influenced my choices.

Sometimes I was behaving in ways that felt comfortable or familiar.

Sometimes prejudice was lurking in the shadows.

Sometimes though my behavior mimicked injustice in the culture around me, in truth, I was acting justly.

Seinfeld could have stopped to understand his authentic answer underneath his bluster. Likewise, the interviewer could have wondered why his BuzzFeed Brews audience was predominantly white men and women, as the angry Seinfeld had pointed out. For me, I want to know my own truth.

We each get to make our own choices, hopefully after reflecting inwardly.

However, it becomes more complex when the perspective widens from the personal to the culture milieu. In fields like comedy, white males have more access to performances, especially lucrative gigs. The same is true for institutional or political appointments. Or philanthropic foundation grants going to pet projects of the (often white male) donors.

We live in a world with unequal access to power and position. For someone who has access, like Seinfeld, to say that he “has no interest in race or anything else” means that he is still unaware, or doesn’t care, how race and gender continue to unjustly influence opportunities available to equally qualified people.

In 1987 I became a charter member of the National Museum of Women in the Arts. When I saw their first exhibit of women’s art through the generations, I was stunned. Though the quality of the exhibit was equal to any I’d seen in a wide array of museums, I’d never heard of most of the artists. The standard curator’s excuse, like the one Seinfeld used, “if you are funny [or a good artist], I’m interested” doesn’t account for the extensive, high quality art/comedy of non-whites and females that has been overlooked for thousands of years.

Seinfeld, and all of us, have a right to make our own choices. But we live in a world that is still deeply divided. To react, rather than seriously ponder challenging questions, comes at a high cost to us all.

When we can wake up to ourselves and to the world around us, we can notice the rich variety of comedy, art or leadership that comes from the full diversity of who we are as humans. With exposure we can grow to appreciate something more than what comes through others who look like us.

February 14, 2014December 28, 2019

Rising Up With a Little Kick-Ass Help

I know Nancy signed her name to this blog, but mind you she wouldn’t be speaking today if it wasn’t for me—Hectate. I’ve been at her side all her life, but she didn’t notice me. She was sweet, nice and very helpful.

A few years ago I took hold of her ovaries, woke her up and she’s been rising every since.

Let me introduce myself. Straight-laced as Nancy was, she always had her little flare so she messed with my real name. When she first noticed me, she thought I was Hestia, the goddess of the home and the sacred fires. Nope. I was Hecate, wild goddess of crossroads like birth and death—those big paradoxes that make most humans quake in their boots. As much as her Texas roots have embarrassed Nancy, she was clear that I was the sort of strong-willed woman she recognized, like Sue Tipps Mathys, her native Texan mother. And, good as she is with words, she’s a lousy speller. My Greek name is Hecate. Nancy called me “Hectate.”

That works for me. All I wanted to do was to wake up good girl Nancy, light the flame of her heart and send her strong and clear into the world. Women have been on the sidelines for far too long. These midnight times for our Earth—the planet, people and creatures—are hopeless without the rising of feminine wisdom. Nancy’s always had that, but it was tamed and flimsy.

I like women who stand up and take charge. Women who lasso the lies of our culture and fan the flames of clarity. You women have been fed a pack of lies that now bounce around in your head. Quit hating your body, trying to fit into an airbrushed ideal. Life is too short and you are too beautiful.

Start thinking with your heart and your gut. All of that good head learning you got in school is still there, but balance it with your body’s smarts. Quit limping around with just part of your clarity.

Life isn’t a forced march. Quit trying to do everything all at once. Listen for what is yours to do next, then do it. Simple as pie.

Smash any box that tries to contain you or your thinking. Life is always bigger, broader, deeper. Keep the boundary of your heart soft and subtle so it can grow and grow and grow.

Remember what we are all here for—to live justly, joyfully and equitably—to build a world for ourselves today and generations yet to come. Keep your focus there.

Let your emotions flow. Anger. Delight. Sadness. Joy. Grief. Disappointment. They all have something to tell you. Ride their waves; dive deeply underneath to see the treasures they hold. Then let them go and act from the wisdom they gave you.

Pay attention. Quit being disrespectful in your words and stop tolerating disrespect from others. Check out your assumptions. Honor yourself and the others enough to treat everyone with respect.

Drop those scales over your eyes. Your experience isn’t everyone’s experience. Jump outside your own skin regularly and listen carefully. We can learn from the world’s diversity.

Be too much. Too loud. Too excited. We need to be respectful of those around us, but holding it in all the time leads to a constipated life.

Know who you are—the stuff you love about yourself—and do well. Your questions. Your burps. Your “good” and “bad” habits. Wrap your arms around the whole shebang. Then there is no need to be reactive or offended when someone says something about you. Either it is true or not true. You know. Quit quaking in your boots.

Sometimes you say or do something that looks like the messed up behavior in our crumbling world. We have millennium of crazy behaviors around stuff like money, skin color, genitalia, brain smarts and religion that has seeped into us all. When you get caught, notice it then change. When it just looks familiar to that smelly stuff, but isn’t, know the difference and keep moving forward.

Maybe you weren’t as far gone as Nancy was. Either way, I hope my little tidbits were helpful.

Now I’ll let Nancy say a few words.

Hectate came and never left. In my wildest imagination, I’ve always wanted to stand with billions rising for justice. Hectate stepped in and used her kick-ass ways to teach me how to do that in every cell in my body. Thank you, Hectate.

I am grateful to Hedgebrook for posting this blog on their website in February 2014. I love their byline– “Hedgebrook supports visionary women writers whose stories and ideas shape our culture now and for generations to come.” It is what our world needs now.

February 12, 2014December 28, 2019

Eight-Eyed Steam Girl—That’s Me

I’ve already come out of the closet as someone who listens for the voices of my ancestors, the moon, rocks and water, and then writes down what I hear. So I suspect you won’t be surprised to find out that I take dictation from other voices, too.

The process of listening for truths that lie within and underneath historical facts has taught me to value a different, feminine kind of knowing—one that can’t be documented or diagrammed or proved. One that doesn’t need to be. What a relief! What a joy!

In the middle of a hot August week, I decided to apply this process to myself and listen for what might be underneath the facts and figures of my own life.

I didn’t have to wait long. Silenced parts of myself bubbled right up in the language of myth.

Lordy, here we go again. I squirmed in my chair, thinking of all my laundry that really needed to be washed right now, and the dishes …

But since I’d been here before, this time I knew what to do:

Ignore my distracting chore list.

Shut up my protesting that this was crazy.

Lie down on my couch.

Listen.

Then dash to my computer and begin to write.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, a wild girl was born onto this planet. She was made of flesh and blood all right, but she was also made of fire and water.

I laughed. Maybe blasting through life with the power of a steam locomotive wasn’t the worst thing in the world. My myth continued.

Men drilled through the earth’s crust, through the hard shale and into the gas-filled rock. Black oil and bubbly gas burst through the earth’s surface, into the wild girl’s feet. Scorching, fiery black gold, red blood and shimmering gas bursting with the power of the Spirit shot through her from toe to head.

The Beverly Hillbillies TV show of my childhood had called oil “Texas tea,” and here it was flowing right through me. While I’d resisted my Texan origins in my fact-based life, in this story, being born on Texas soil sounded mighty fine. No wonder I’d struggled with feeling boiling mad—the miracle was that I hadn’t burnt to a crisp.

Luckily, however, as the earth’s flaming blood pumped into her veins, cool water fell into her eyes from the heavens above. This same water once filled the ancient seas. These rains filled her body, mixing with the earth’s oily blood in her veins. It was not a gentle mixing as steam poured out of her ears.

Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to soaking in the tub when I need to center myself. Or part of the reason Community Wholeness Venture’s foot washing ritual was so powerful for me. And why I loved the process of anointing the land with a different sort of oil and imagined it combining with the living water of Jesus.

As my myth unfolded, so did the extraordinary qualities of my steam girl self—I had eight eyes and was born riding high in my little red boat.

While she loves her own legend, this steamy, many-eyed girl wants to know about you. Not the boring resume stuff. Something juicy, too real for mere facts. A good story, a deep myth.

You think you don’t have one?

Nonsense.

Tell your skeptical mind to go outside to play and start listening.

Have your pen and notebook or keyboard ready, and hold on. It’s quite a ride to see yourself this way.

You just might discover some parts of yourself that you’ve tried so hard to change are the very parts that give you character. Within myth, quirks and foibles spice up life rather than spoil it.

As you explore, don’t forget to dive deeply into the mystery that is you. Let the fun begin.

I tell more of her/my fantastical story in Big Topics at Midnight. Or, if you want to other tasty morsels about this wild ride of waking up and more deeply engaging in life, explore, poke around my website. She’ll be there, along with Hectate and some ancestors showing up with words, videos and pictures.

February 3, 2014

Roots and Writing

It matters where my words take root.

I will write anywhere inspiration hits—on a street corner, in the bathroom or while riding (not driving) in a car. I regularly slip off to Alivar Coffeehouse a few blocks away to do a bit of editing or play with an idea. But when I’m writing about big topics dear to my heart, I need a fertile place where my words can take root.

Big Topics at Midnight was born on the road between Portland Library’s Writing Room, Suena’s Coffee Shop and my home desk. But she took root for six years in a bedroom-turned-writing-studio within Rosegate Condominium #18, where blue walls are covered with art and photographs, my laptop perches on a Value Village desk, a candle flickers at my side and the courtyard’s tulip magnolia moves gently in the wind outside my window.

When I first started writing, I was part of a small group of friends scattered across the country who dreamed about bold experiments in community and economic justice. One of those ideas manifested in the co-ownership of Condo #18 as a place of “Hospice-tality.”

Hospice-tality. Hospice and Hospitality. A welcoming condo that intentionally holds places/times of death, either physical dying or, more often, the crumbling of relationships, dreams, habits and assumptions—in a container of love and community. Jan came to calm her anxiety while simultaneously looking a job. Sally came after a beloved relationship shattered. Nothing like grief to water our souls—and my words—and send our roots down deep.

Our group’s dreams for justice, healing and community wove their way into the pages of Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself. As I dove into my past, I realized that some of my cherished memories needed to be grieved and buried.

For example, my pride in Midland High School’s ease of integration crashed when I realized that it had taken fourteen years and the threat of a federal lawsuit before the community obeyed Brown vs. Board of Education’s ruling. In addition, I was horrified to realize that the way desegregation was implemented abruptly closed Carver High School, robbing the black community of a beloved gathering place and bringing an end to decades of school traditions. Meanwhile, my historically white school’s “Midland Bulldogs” remained strong and vibrant. Condo 18 held me while I ranted at the system and mourned all I hadn’t noticed for so long.

In Condo 18, with pen and paper, I also awoke to a lifelong distrust of my innate feminine, intuitive wisdom and how I, along with much of America, had exalted an intellectual, strategic masculine approach as “the best way to do things.” I dusted off these newly discovered roots and began to notice how they had grounded my work even before I noticed them.

Sitting at the computer looking out my office window, I struggled with the ways that “Money [had] Made Howard [and me] Stupid.”^*Waking up to life as it was around class, gender and race disoriented me. I was grateful to be writing in Condo 18, a community space born from a shared commitment, one created to align heart and actions.

Including actions around economics. Money, I’d discovered, sometimes had prickly and convoluted roots.

Money was part of the rich soil of the Condo 18 experiment, as we sought to grow a new economic paradigm. Each of us who stepped into the experiment donated 10% of our savings, knowing that we would be equal owners even though our invested amounts were vastly different. Extra money was donated to other organizations or people doing exciting new projects rooted in economic justice. When it is time to sell Condo 18, the money will flow out into the world in some creative way.

From outside my window, the tulip magnolia waves to me. I wave back. She’s doing her work and I’m doing mine. I sit alone at the computer to write, but even here my solitude is held in community. In addition to the co-owners, members of my creative community have also filled my writing studio: Jen Violi, content editor/friend/word genius extraordinaire, Khara Scott-Bey, intuitive illustrator who drew the perfect image for each chapter and Ann Eames, copy editor/master at putting my spelling, grammar and tense quirks into finished words. My writing studio is full even when I am alone.

Just as Condo 18 itself pushes the edges of the cultural notion of independent ownership, my book doesn’t fit into “normal” categories either. It is a Social Change Memoir. Not pushing-the-blocks-around sort of social change, but root level change of the personal, institutional, national and global. Not just my memoir, but also the personal stories of many of my ancestors, the moon, Hectate and the Eight-eyed Steam Girl. Condo 18 and Big Topics at Midnight shoot down roots that refuse to be contained.

Big Topics. Big Change. Big awakenings. Writing Big Topics at Midnight demanded Big support. When the winds blew and threatened to knock me down, my roots held me firm.

I return to my desk, put my hands on the keyboard, plant my feet on the wooden floor and let the words flow. Condo 18 is the ground that supports my writing journey.

It matters where my words take root, and this is ground I can trust.

^* A chapter in my book Big Topics at Midnight, page 241.

January 27, 2014

A Circle of Wisdom #3: Water Speaks

Water spoke to me. In 2005, standing on my family’s ancestral land in North Carolina and deep in my imagination, I felt the gathering of rocks and plants, moon and water, people and animals. Each had come from ages past to share their wisdom with me.

I first hear the drops at a distance. A gentle dance of water on leaves. Rain begins to fall from the sky, one puffy white cloud in an otherwise clear expanse. I laugh. For the past week I have been hurrying around trying to avoid the rain in North Carolina. Hurry to put up my tent before the rain starts, hurry to take it down so it stays dry, wait to drive until after the storm passes. I acted as if rain was some sort of enemy. Here, sitting around this council fire, the rain again finds me. This time I relax back and let the drops splash on my warm skin, a welcome relief from the heat.

A voice comes with the splashing of the drops as they land in the clay pot at the edge of our circle. “I am water. Most of this earth is water. You plants and animals are mostly water, just like me. Long, long ago the waters gathered together and splashed on this barren land. From my undulating womb was birthed the beginning of all of life on this small planet. The water that flows through your veins, bathes your tissues, flows over the earth, and falls from the sky is the same water that was present in Life’s birthing. Water that was, water that is, water that always will be.

In and out of the skies, the oceans and your bodies; I long to be on the move. Washing, cleansing, bathing, freshening.

Water is one of the primary gifts that brings life on this little planet. My free flowing was intended to wash on everyone, without cost.

In recent years I am being robbed of my gift to the world. Now in too many places I am dirty and dangerous before I even touch the ground. Far too often I am filled with poisons by the time I flow into the river, killing the very life that I am entrusted to surround and nourish. Even in the wildness of the ocean, I too often carry the death of spilled oil, toxins and garbage along my waves. Instead of providing life-giving water I am too often forced to carry contamination. Now many of my raindrops are tears of grief.

In the end, I will survive. If this abuse continues, you humans and many of you plants and animals may die out.

You have forgotten. How you treat me, waters of the earth and waters of your bodies, is how you treat yourself. How you see me is how you see yourself. We are not separate. We all flow from the sacred heart to be of service to all of life. All of creation joins my plea to you humans; open your eyes and see anew with gratitude the gift that flows from the beginning to the end. Step into the river, into the living water, as part of the family of life. I want to flow abundantly and again offer life to all.”

Silence returns to the circle, broken only by a short burst before the rain ends. Long after the rain has stopped, drops continue to fall from the forest leaves. The trees know how to relish a good rain for a long time.

This writing is excerpted from “A Circle of Wisdom” that flowed from an experience near my family’s ancestral land in North Carolina and the depths of my imagination. I’ll share parts of the wisdom I “heard”—from water, rocks, plants and animals—in this blog series.

January 22, 2014

A Circle of Wisdom #2: Rocks Speak

Rocks spoke to me. Standing on my family’s ancestral land in North Carolina in 2006 and deep in my imagination, I felt the gathering of rocks and plants, moon and water, people and animals. Each had come from ages past to share their wisdom with me.

A rock near the fire begins to vibrate and a dull glow shines from within. This rock, a mixture of quartz, sulphur, and basalt, begins to speak, “We remember. Some of us remember the molten lava that spewed liquid rocks from the center of the newborn earth. Others of us hold the memory of the ages pressed into our layers. We have experienced the power of creation and fire at the heart of the world.

We have seen much and have been deep within this land for billions of years. Some of us are strong, some soft and pliable. Each of us offering what is needed, in function, beauty and healing.

Animals, without knowing it, come to the place where we are resting to receive our healing power. Plants grow in different ways in different places due to our energy from deep within the earth. Humans over the thousands of years have made use of us and been grateful for our varied gifts.”

A strong voice interrupts, “Gold here. Humans singled me out and have been particularly grateful for me. But this honor too often led to greed rather than respect … with earth breaking results.

Near here, in Dahlonega, GA, white settlers found me. That was the final impetus to remove the Cherokee from this valuable land.”

Mining by white men’s companies started immediately. In time, mining technology sped up our extraction so money could flow quicker. High-pressure water was turned on the land washing away tons of earth and snapping trees like twigs. The earth was gashed and ripped away as my veins were laid bare. A few men become rich and the rest of us died a little more.

Lust for us declined when oil and gas became valued above all else, including life. Whenever minerals, rocks or crystals are quickly extracted from this earth, the land is slashed and the tailings discarded. The gashes are horrifying.” The earth beneath my feet shutters with the memory. Gold is silent again.

The rock in our midst continues, “But the tragedy is that the full gift of us minerals, rocks and crystals is usually overlooked today. We are treated as irrelevant hunks of earth.

It is too often forgotten that we who touch the Earth’s core, streak through the mountains, and lie in wait under the prairies have so much to offer.

We have been taken and used. We helped a few get rich or build things. Meanwhile the earth lies with her wounds ignored and our healing energy is considered primitive nonsense.

You know and use my quartz in your instruments, but her energetic ability to help support harmony between you humans and the universe is ignored. Many have figured out how to use us for building things but few humans around the world remember how to listen to rocks, crystals and minerals anymore. This forgetting comes just at a point where our memory and our power are most needed by you.

Listen. You are sitting on a firm foundation. We hold the memory of creation. We can help guide the way and heal you. Listen and receive. It is time to come home to us, the rocks of the earth.”

In a few months, Howard and I are traveling to the Grand Canyon the wild, red rocks of Utah. Something happens to me when I stand on ancient rocks. I can more easily slip out of my mind, and into the now. I hear the wisdom of the rocks that spoke at the Council of Wisdom that gathered in my imagination, the rocks that adorn my writing space and the rocks that hide or loom hight all around the world around me.

January 17, 2014

A Circle of Wisdom: The Moon Speaks

I spent a hot and stormy night in Franklin, North Carolina in 2006. In the sweltering afternoon before the storm, I walked from the center of town, down the hill beside the road busy with traffic, past the auto shop and the Carpet store, across from the Hot Spot gas station. Nestled in this unlikely place was a big, grassy area mound at least twice my height and as big as my living room.

Later that night in the midst of the storm, an unexpected council began to gather seen only by the eyes of my heart. Over the next month, the fullness of the council came to me and spoke. Despite our different “languages” we communicated without difficulty.

The plump full moon spoke first from her far off perch.

“Millions of years ago, something wild and filled with Love pulsed through the vast empty space. At just the right moment all of the elements floating in the abyss were irresistibly pulled together into a giant fireball. The explosion consumed everything and filled all that was. This sacred fire burned for nearly a million years. From this fiery beginning billions and billions of galaxies formed, including ours. On your planet swirled the perfect combination of elements warmed by the sun, and a wild diversity of life was birthed. Stardust is woven into everything, into you and into me. While the primeval soup of the universe churned, this planet and everything on it was pulled together through the attraction of gravity. Throughout it all a voice full of delight cried out, ‘It is GOOD, it is VERY GOOD!”

All is held together by a dance of attraction. This includes my round body, the rocks, the earth and each of your bodies. There is a pull within our atoms, our molecules and your living cells that keeps us all dancing together. In that way, in a way of mystery beyond all telling of it, this entire universe is held together by attraction. You can call it gravity, if you prefer. Call it whatever you want.

In truth, we are held together by Love.

All of us, from rocks, to trees, to me, to you humans, we have all that we need. We are and we live, and that is enough. You humans, set in the middle of this ever-creating cosmos, have something additional. You were given the ability to witness and reflect on the beauty and mystery and glory of creation. That is a great gift, but not an easy one. It would be impossible for you to carry the responsibility of witnessing the beauty and shouldering the crucial stewardship alone. But you were never meant to do it alone. The Love at the center of it all guides the way. The rest of creation is ready to help.

If you humans will only ask and listen.”

Moon is quiet for a moment. We all know that humans have so rarely asked or listened, especially in the last few hundred years. All around us creation groans in sighs too deep for words.

Soon Moon continues, “This sky that looks bright under the sun’s rays by day and dark with twinkles by night is the powerful Mother of all. The Mother cosmos exploded in birth when touched with the Loving divine. Earth, and all of you in this council gathered around the fire, are filled with all that is needed for abundant life. It is an exquisite gift to all sisters and brothers of creation.

Don’t forget. We are all one family, part of a vast universe held together with Love.”

I shiver in amazement at the breadth and wildness of my cosmic home. I have spent most of my life trying to shrink the universe into something small and manageable. I had pictured the world like a small globe, the universe something I could hold in my hand.

It was easier that way.

It was also a lie.

… It is now January 2014. In these times when it feels like so much is crashing around us, it is good for me to remember the deeper truth–we are all held together by Love.

December 28, 2013

Death in a Season of Birth

The call came in the middle of the night—a shrill ring startling me awake from a dead sleep.

It was Dad calling to tell me that my mother was “gone.” He couldn’t yet say the stark word “dead.”

That call came twenty-seven years ago last week. This holiday, I heard of one death after another—Richard, Skipper, Gabe, Brian, Shirley, Nelson and people whose names I only know as Dad, Mom and Grandpa. None of these people were in my inner circle of friends and family, yet all were people I cared about or were loved by them.

Each of these deaths involved phone calls no one wants to make or receive. Death here in the season where we celebrate birth.

I know the light is returning on this side of the winter solstice, but in the dark of night, the ever-present reality of death has settled deep in my bones.

In this upcoming year I will turn sixty, the age of my mother when she died.

My knee aches. Howard’s hearing diminishes. What will aging take from us?

Death and loss pace just outside the door of my life, and at this moment I’m afraid that someone I love dearly might be next.

Several years ago, I selected songs to honor Howard’s and my thirty-five years of marriage. One, “Nothing Lasts Forever,” was based on a poem by the mystic Rabindranath Tagore:

Nothing lasts forever…

keep that in mind,

and love.

To live with an open heart, loving others and life itself, will lead to the sharp pain of grief when death comes. And yet, paradoxically, full-hearted loving despite the fact that “nothing lasts forever,” it is only path to joy.

It takes courage to be awake and present in our lives. Rather than push my fear of loss away too quickly, I sit in the dark of night and let it soften me. Now is what we have each been given. Tomorrow is mystery.

Writing is one of the ways I make sense of my life and my feelings. Putting these words on paper didn’t make the fear evaporate, but it reminded me once again of the solid foundation that trust and courage offer all of me, including my loving heart and frightened bones. Someday soon, my fears will settle as they have many times before.

When that happens, I will remember that life and death are two sides of the same coin. And both are normal and safe.